Agent in the shadows, p.2
Agent in the Shadows, page 2
‘And your line of work, Harold?’
‘I’m with the Ministry of Labour, in Whitehall.’
Nicholas raised his eyebrows approvingly and then asked a series of questions: what was his job there, where was he from, how long had he been in London, his personal circumstances, how had he become interested in the British Union of Fascists, what did he think of Jews… and of Germany?
Harold Dickson couldn’t make Nicholas out: he was clearly someone quite important, but what if he was a police agent? He’d heard about that, about how they were infiltrating various patriotic organisations.
Nevertheless, he answered as best he could. He was from Manchester, he’d been in London since 1931 – almost two years now – he was a senior clerical officer at the Ministry, he was single and lived in a bedsit in Finsbury Park and agreed with everything Nicholas had said about Jews – and communists, for that matter – and as for Germany he was a great admirer of the country, so much so that he’d enrolled in night-classes to learn German as part of a Civil Service staff education scheme. He was most heartened by recent developments there and if only this country was led by someone with the vision and determination of Herr Hitler and… what was the other question?
‘How did you become interested in the British Union of Fascists?’
Nicholas was staring straight ahead, smoking a cigarette in a holder, which appeared to be made from ivory.
‘I was handed a leaflet outside Charing Cross station and realised their views were very much in accord with my own. I joined the party a couple of months ago and now I subscribe to the Blackshirt. I find it speaks a good deal more sense than the Jewish-owned newspapers.’
Nicholas nodded and said ‘indeed’ but as he turned towards him it began to rain again and in the way of August weather it was soon very heavy and the two of them stood up and made to leave the small park.
‘I suggest we meet again, Harold. I’ve enjoyed our brief chat but would appreciate a longer one. Perhaps in a week’s time?’
Harold Dickson said yes, by all means – it would be a pleasure and…
‘You have a lunch break, I presume?’
Harold said yes, Fridays were by far the best day because the senior officials left at lunchtime for their weekend in the country.
‘A week on Friday then: head towards Northumberland Avenue and then walk in the direction of the river. I’ll see you then.’
* * *
Harold Dickson did as Nicholas had instructed: he took a late lunch break and left the Ministry of Labour by the main entrance on Whitehall and headed north and just before Trafalgar Square turned into Northumberland Avenue.
It was a pleasant day, not as humid as it had been recently thanks to a light breeze from the river. It had occurred to him that he’d allowed himself to be charmed by a man he knew next to nothing about. It was one of his weaknesses, an excessive desire to court the approval of people, a tendency to be flattered and allow that to perhaps cloud his judgement. It was, he thought, down to his background: a working-class boy with a scholarship to a grammar school. Not quite fitting in, but always looking for someone who may allow him to do so.
It was at that moment that Nicholas appeared alongside, wishing him a good afternoon and asking how was he and without waiting for an answer suggesting maybe they should find a bench on the Victoria Embankment. They found an isolated one close to Hungerford Bridge.
‘I see that you joined the party and subscribed to the Blackshirt in your own name. I wonder whether that was an altogether wise decision?’
‘I didn’t think it would be a problem.’
‘You’re a civil servant, Dickson. Not a terribly senior one, admittedly, but it could be a problem. How long did you say you’ve been with the Ministry of Labour?’
‘Two years and—’
‘Have you ever thought of applying for a transfer to another government department?’
Dickson said he hadn’t, he was happy enough where he was, and he hoped he was in line for another promotion soon and after that, who knows?
‘Who knows what, indeed. But let me come to the point. You’re a bright chap and clearly one of us.’
He paused as he placed a cigarette in the ivory holder and Dickson wondered if Nicholas would elaborate on what exactly he meant by ‘one of us’ but got the impression that whatever it was, it was a compliment.
‘You’re the type of chap who could be most useful to us, but not in the Ministry of Labour. I would like you to consider applying for a transfer. There are two or three government departments where you could be of considerable help to us. I have some experience in this respect, but one needs to proceed with caution. I need you to listen carefully.’
* * *
Harold Dickson had listened carefully and found himself seduced by Nicholas’s promise of greater things, of how invaluable he could be to the cause and of how he deserved a more important role.
His transfer duly came through that November and he was to start his new job at the beginning of 1934.
In the six weeks between getting his new job and starting it, he had – on Nicholas’s instructions – changed his name. It had been surprisingly straightforward: Nicholas put him in touch with a solicitor who he said was also ‘one of us’ and who handled everything, all costs covered by Nicholas. He wrote on his client’s behalf to the Personnel Department at his new department informing them of his new surname, explaining that he’d taken on his late mother’s maiden name in her memory and no longer wished to use Harold, and from now his middle name would be his sole Christian name.
There was a change of address to inform them of too: a very pleasant small apartment in Highbury, somewhat beyond his budget, but Nicholas had been most helpful and generous in that respect.
All of which meant that by the time he began his new job Harold Dickson no longer existed.
On Nicholas’s strict instructions he eschewed all interest in politics. He expressed no opinions. He was careful, discreet and very hard-working. He did nothing to give rise to the slightest suspicion and soon began to prosper in his new job as Nicholas promised he would. He continued his Civil Service German lessons and Nicholas arranged for him to have private lessons, which led to a noticeable improvement in that language, which in turn did his career no harm.
He met Nicholas once a month during 1934. Nicholas asked little of him at these carefully arranged meetings other than the names of people he worked with and their roles. These were more just friendly chats, constantly stressing the importance of keeping his head down and concentrating on his career. He also encouraged him to apply for an overseas posting.
Early in 1935 Nicholas confided in him that he and a number of others were coming to the view that Oswald Mosley was too moderate, unwilling to embrace the ideals of National Socialism. But for the time being, Nicholas told him, he was to carry on and keep his head down.
The time when they would call on his services was not now.
That time would come soon.
And then late in 1935 there was unexpected news. An overseas posting had come up and he’d obviously impressed his new bosses enough to be offered it. He barely had time to see Nicholas before he left and when he did, Nicholas seemed distracted.
He told him to keep his head down.
Maybe the time when Nicholas would call on his services would be sooner or later.
Chapter 2
Berne, Switzerland
August 1943
‘You’re going to need to snap out of it, I’m afraid.’
Sophia von Naundorf could sense Jack Miller bristling next to her on the sofa. Over the past few days Basil Remington-Barber had persisted in telling his two spies they needed to ‘snap out of it’ and Jack had sworn that if the Englishman said it one more time, the only thing that would snap was Basil’s neck.
‘You seem to forget, Basil, that we became very close to Roman. I smuggled him out of Austria into Switzerland and Jack and I then worked closely with him. His invention could have made an enormous contribution to the Allied war effort. And remember, Jack and I risked our lives going back into Germany. For us to be captured by the Gestapo and then escape only to be told that Roman had died in an explosion is—’
‘He almost certainly blew himself up – deliberately. We need to understand that—’
‘Whatever caused his death or led to it, Basil, that’s not for us to judge. He was in despair about his family. He had to leave them behind in Poland and I don’t think he ever got over that.’
‘I know that, Sophia my dear. We have to accept that they’re most probably dead now and—’
‘Exactly, that’s the point, isn’t it, Basil?’ Jack was speaking for the first time, the American’s voice raised. ‘He either found out his family were dead or had come to the conclusion there was nothing he could do to save them. We’ll never know which it was, but I’ve no doubt he blamed himself. We –’ at that point Jack paused and made a gesture which made it clear Basil was very much included in the ‘we’ ‘– we are all to blame. We ought to have done more to help him, to understand him.’
‘There is a war on, you know, and—’
‘For Christ’s sake, Basil, if you say that one more time I’m finished, you can count me out of your games. I know there’s a war on. My brother was killed in it and Sophia and I have spent enough time working for you as British agents inside Germany. Of all people we don’t need telling there’s a war on! We just think you ought to be more understanding. It’s only six weeks since we escaped from Germany.’
Basil Remington-Barber was silent for a few moments and then said he was terribly sorry, perhaps he’d underestimated how long it would take them to get over everything and… There was another long pause and Sophia asked him what he was trying to say, and the Englishman said maybe they needed to get back in the saddle and Sophia said she wasn’t sure what he meant.
‘It’s an English saying.’ Jack placed his hand on Sophia’s thigh and smiled and Basil shuffled around in his chair, as ever discomfited by their displays of affection. ‘It means when you fall off a horse the best way to get over it is to get back on the horse again. Are you trying to say you have another mission in mind for us?’
They were in the library of the British Embassy safe house just outside Berne, where Sophia and Jack had been staying since returning from their last mission in Germany. Basil walked over to the far side of the room to face a large map of Europe, his back to his two spies. He nodded, as if satisfied all the countries were in their correct positions. Only then did he turn round, moving to one side of the mantelpiece, very much the schoolmaster about to start a lesson.
‘Over the past six months the change in the course of the war has been most profound. Unlike the earlier part of the conflict, these changes have been almost entirely in the Allies’ favour. At the beginning of February, the Germans surrendered at Stalingrad, which put pay to any ambitions the Nazis may have had of defeating the Soviet Union. At the same time, Tripoli – here – fell to the Allies. Then we saw the Allied bombing campaign on the Ruhr, which you know all about and which has undoubtedly been a success. Since then, the Nazis have been defeated in the Battle of Kursk; the Germans and Italians have been defeated in North Africa and in July we invaded Sicily and we’re now on the verge of capturing the island, after which there’s the Italian mainland.’
Basil surveyed the map for a while and then turned to Sophia and Jack, clearly taking some personal pride at the Allied success.
‘It rather sounds as if we’re redundant, Basil?’
‘What do you mean, Jack?’
The American gestured towards the map. ‘Sounds as if the war is almost over and maybe we’re not needed any more.’
‘I shall give you the benefit of the doubt, Jack, and assume you’re teasing me. It is indeed tempting to take a view that victory is in our grasp but, in fact, there’s still an awfully long way to go. Germany remains very strong and retains an iron grip on most of Europe. The war will not be won until we can open a second front and land somewhere around here – on the northern French coast – and move on from there to liberate Europe.
‘All of which means France is the key to Allied success. We must be confident our invasion won’t be repelled. We simply cannot risk failure. Were that to happen then the second front would be delayed for a year. Imagine, another year of this cursed war. And this is where you both come in.’
Basil outlined a series of rough circles over France with his pointer. ‘We need to ensure that by the time the second front comes, the Nazi’s hold on France is weakened. When our forces land, the German occupiers should be looking over their shoulders, worried about who else is fighting them inside France.
‘I’m talking about the French Resistance: there is plenty of talk about them – brave chaps and girls, blowing up the occasional railway line or putting sugar in the fuel tanks of German military vehicles, slogans on walls, leaflets – all good for morale and whatever – but that isn’t the point of the Resistance. Their real purpose should be for it to develop into a formidable fighting force by the time the second front arrives, whenever that is – most likely sometime next year. We need them to be a genuine underground movement by then – an army, if you like, one which will rise up and hit the Germans from every angle when our forces land on the northern coast. If they do their job properly then they’ll be in a position to totally undermine the German defence. They’ll be able to disrupt them, block their reinforcements, make them worry about being attacked from every angle.’
‘And our role in this?’
Basil looked at Sophia, sitting in what his wife would describe as a demure manner. She really was the most remarkable woman: an SS officer’s wife turned British spy and unquestionably one of the best they had. And such a contrast to Jack Miller, also a highly effective and brave British agent, but who was direct to the point of being rude. Yet the two opposites were clearly in love. He turned back to the map and placed the pointer close to the Swiss border.
‘Lyon: not terribly far from here. Arguably as dramatic a city as Paris: wonderful food, home of French gastronomy. And more to the point, the heart of the French Resistance. You’ll get a full briefing, of course, but the Resistance there has been severely wounded and if that proves to be fatal then so could be the outcome of the second front. We need to get into Lyon to sort it out, to help rebuild the Resistance, but it won’t be easy. The Gestapo there is the most brutal and the most effective in all of France.’
The long silence that followed was broken only by the sound of a clock at the far end of the room and a dog barking in the distance. Basil Remington-Barber watched the two agents carefully: Sophia sitting quite still, the very faintest trace of a smile on her face but showing no reaction other than that. Jack Miller sighed, ran his hands through his hair, glanced at Sophia and then walked up to the map, as if checking Lyon really was there.
‘Severely wounded, you say?’
‘Yes, Jack: I’m afraid so.’
‘And the most brutal Gestapo in all of France?’
‘Young chap called Klaus Barbie runs it. Took over at the end of last year. Already acquired himself a dreadful reputation. The French call him le boucher de Lyon – the butcher of Lyon.’
‘And you want us to go there?’
‘As I say, Jack, you’ll get a full briefing and we still have to work out cover stories and—’
‘When were you thinking of sending us there, Basil?’
It was Sophia speaking. Basil had come to realise that while the American was more emotional, Sophia was much more practical. In a very Germanic way, she was good at taking orders, certainly less likely to question them.
‘Not just yet because we need to work on your cover stories and liaise with what’s left of the Resistance in Lyon. And there’s another thing… someone else is going to be looking after you from now on.’
‘Are you retiring, Basil?’
The Englishman laughed, not without a hint of bitterness. ‘I was meant to retire in 1939 but this damned war put paid to that. Heaven knows when I’ll be able to retire, but whereas the Swiss station was a bit of an outpost for MI6 before the war, now it’s very much the centre of things, as you can imagine, and I’m afraid that the amount of work I have to do has become rather overwhelming. You are without doubt two of our most prized agents and you need more attention than I can give you.’
‘Will it be Noel looking after us?’
‘No, he’s terribly busy too. You’re so highly regarded they’re sending someone over from London to run your operation.’
‘And are you going to tell us who they are?’
Basil leaned back on the sofa and crossed his legs.
‘You’ll meet him very soon: but he’s terribly senior. Outranks me!’
Chapter 3
Hanover, Germany
May 1941
By his thirty-eighth year Heinz-Wilhelm Schütze felt he’d reached an age where he no longer needed to crave the constant assurance and approval of others. Everything he’d done over the past year in particular had led him to the inescapable conclusion that he was indeed very bright and the description of genius – which had once been given to him by a teacher – was not an undeserved one.
He did sometimes wonder what would have happened had the tragedy of March 1937 not taken place, even though his mother had always told him there was nothing to be gained from always looking back and wishing life had turned out differently.
‘We have to accept the life God has decided for us, Heinz-Wilhelm,’ she’d say, a hint of bitterness in her voice, a sense that she herself hadn’t quite accepted what God had decided for her. And in the same breath she’d use him as an example. It was God’s will that he’d turned out so differently from other children, she’d say – and as a consequence had continued to live with his parents even though he was now in his thirties.
